Wednesday, March 2, 2011

The days wear on like the tattered coat of a homeless manThe passing of time does little to insulate one from the coldTorn pockets which kept saved memories produce empty handsOr only bits of lint clinging to the walls of a worn out soul

We reach; digging deeper in the consternation of our griefSearching for some stored equity in the balance of truthWe come to the realization that time is a pick-pocket thiefAnd gone forever are the secret, sacred treasures of our youth

The brown skinned boy that ran playing in fields with his friendly dog;The fair-haired girl whose blue eyes sparkled with mischievous twinkleFar away and surreal now; a land hidden by distant fogFrost has gathered to the hair and the sun is stored in wrinkles

Do you remember his name? I can’t, for the life of me, recall.She had a pretty party dress; a dolly with go to sleep eyes.Perhaps I only dreamt it and it wasn’t real after allYesterday; suddenly gone, without the chance to say goodbye